Alavina Apparel
by Cavaticarose
Summary: Donnel Udina wasn't selected to be Councilor.


Udina cursed under his breath as he stalked out of the Council chambers. Why in God's name would anyone choose David Anderson to lead humanity? There was no decision more foolish, other than leaving the choice in the hands of that glorified gun-for-hire Spectre in the first place.

Shepard saved them all, and the press was already calling it the Battle of the Citadel. But at what cost? The lives and resources of countless Alliance soldiers, all for the token admiration of the Council? If he had it his way… But he didn't. At least humanity gained _some_ clout after all of this.

He strolled through the Presidium gardens, taking a familiar route to a familiar place. The cheery, perpetually blue sky served as a stark contrast to Udina's mood, to say nothing of the damage done by the geth attack. Disappointment, and for all the time he lived here, made this place his home, and this was the payout. Strange how he got used to how wrong the Citadel felt. No day/night cycle, no real respite from the constant second-guessing, and not even a decent place to get sockeye salmon. And to top it off, rubble and waste scattered about.

All this he endured, just for this insult.

The insult came from Commander Shepard. A thug posing as a soldier with Anderson for a mentor. Both of them hot-headed imbeciles who only relied on fists and guns to get a job done. All bite and impulsiveness, no finesse, no nuance. No real feel for how the Citadel worked.

As he walked, Udina noted the state of disarray. Luckily this area of the Presidium remained mostly intact, though it lacked the appeal of the more popular attractions. If ever existed a less prestigious section of the vast ring, this level had it in abundance. The gardens grew, but just so, and looked thin and sparse. The air lacked the artificial perfume intended to put the races at ease. Instead it sat still and arid, further disrupting the illusion of tranquility.

It was here that Udina walked into Alavina Apparel, a tiny, non-descript tailor and alteration store, deserted save for the lone asari storeclerk pretending to look busy with a clothing rack. She paused her deception just long enough to acknowledge him, a slight glance before hurriedly typing into a console on her oval-shaped desk. But on seeing Udina's ghost of a sneer, she stopped what she was doing in earnest and gave the ambassador a practiced, painted on smile.

"Welcome to Alavina Apparel," she said brightly. "May I interest you in any new suits today? We're running a special where all proceeds go to the victims of Taysari Ward."

"I'm not interested," he replied, annoyed and impatient with the song and dance. "Zafeira is holding a few garments for me. A pair of trousers and three shirts."

"Is she now?" The clerk looked over Udina's shoulder and checked her omni-tool. "In that case, would you care for a drink while you wait for your fitting? Bottle of water, some Thessian Blend tea?"

"Neither." He meandered to a side wall, taking in a decorative print of a famous asari painter. The ubiquitous image of the ancient and wise race, seen in almost every store owned by a blue woman. Two dancers bathed in pale red light, bowing in deference to each other. Famous to them, he supposed, but nothing special.

He turned, folded his arms, and regarded the 'young' asari with a level look. "Mezcal on the rocks with elasa root powder."

The clerk's smile didn't waver. "Sure. Why don't you come on back?" She beckoned him to a plain section of wall and pulled up her omni-tool. With a quick series of keystrokes, she activated a VI to man the storefront while she opened a partition.

Udina stifled an impatient sigh as the wall parted. What he would give for just a house call, or even an ambassador gala in a pinch. He hated to admit it, but he had a grudging respect for the discretion. He stepped through the back door into a narrow hallway, then strode the six paces to the room in the back.

He knocked three times.

Unlike the Consort, who had a publicized list of appointment holders, Alavina Apparel kept no hard record of who came and went. Every transaction, every referral, and every appointment held a sense of secrecy rivaled only by STG units. Udina occasionally wondered who else knew of the place other than his close contact, but he feared that if curiosity got the better of him, he would appear just as malleable. Besides, blackmail was a weak man's tool, no more effective than bullets or brawn.

If only everyone _else_ saw things that way.

The door opened to a lavishly decorated room with elegant Thessian furniture at least a millennia old. Paintings adorned the wall, and a mix of modern and ancient sculptures line the shelves. Udina always found himself torn at the display. On one hand, wealth, notoriety and opulence all _seemed_ rather appealing. On the other hand, what good were all those things if they weren't put to good use or seen?

As he waited for Zafeira to make her appearance, Udina's mind wandered back to the conversation held at the Presidium tower. He still couldn't believe that the Council would hand over the proverbial keys to some washed up soldier and his equally untested protégé. If it wasn't for Udina's intervention, Anderson would have stalled the investigation before it even started, due in no small part to his own failings at becoming a Spectre.

And Shepard. Udina had a hunch about that half-crazed woman from the start. She didn't test well with the press, with her constant scowls at anyone who didn't agree with her. The Alliance soldiers were all the same, but _she_ somehow took that and became an even bigger pain in the ass to deal with. It wasn't lost on Udina that she chose Anderson out of spite. Everything she's ever said to him was out of spite.

The damned shrew.

Udina barely noticed the clerk return with a drink in hand. He grabbed it, and gave the clerk a dismissive glare before he stared into the cool glass. He took a sip of the deep amber liquid, and savored the smoky flavor mixed with a numbing sting that reminded him distantly of Sichuan peppers. The clerk eyed him, then left the room.

Alone with his drink and his thoughts, Udina sauntered to the chaise, stark black with ornate gold details. He sank into the cushions and waited. And waited. It was always her style, and any other day he wouldn't have minded. But now he wished that Zafeira would just cut to the chase and get it over with.

The more he thought about the crushing insult, the years of effort undone, and what lay ahead in the future, the more he needed the release. He couldn't stand it, and a dark sour taste crept into his mouth drowning out the smoky spice in its wake.

As if on cue, Udina heard the distinct, almost musical footfall of Zafeira. Her skin, deep blue as always. White markings danced and pebbled in intricate patterns across her face and scalp while her ancient sea-green eyes shown in sardonic amusement. She took pleasure in mocking him just as he took pleasure in nailing her. So ageless and superior until they were on their backs squealing like teenagers.

"Long day, Udina?" She asked, voice sultry with a hint of mirth.

"You could say that," he replied, downing the rest of his drink.

"Naiera told me what you wanted. You do know that melding is extra, right?" She eyed him incredulously, and closed the distance between her chambers and the couch. She didn't sit, opted instead to stare at him, scrutinize him.

"I'm well aware of that fact," he glowered. "Luckily you don't charge by the hour. I've been here for almost twenty minutes."

"Shut up, already. You're talking too much."

His frown deepened. "How _dare_ you? I shouldn't have bothered–"

"I dare," she said as she tugged on his shirt, "because you love it. No one else in your precious little bubble _ever_ speaks to you that way, isn't that right? Isn't that the little myth you tell yourself every night? Every night," she leaned in, voice husky against his ear, "alone," she nips at his neck, "in that sad, barren apartment of yours?"

But this time he felt nothing.

"Something different," he muttered, not pushing her away.

"You're in a mood," she snapped. With a huff of breath, she changed her tone and sat on the couch. "Mr. Udina, sir," she began in a gentle coo, "How did such a fierce leader like you wind up in my chambers?" She draped her arms around his shoulders and looked at him invitingly.

He waved a dismissive hand and leaned further into the cushions. "Just get on with the melding," he said, rolling his eyes. "I'm sure you'll find what you need there."

She made an annoyed sound, then grabbed his shoulders, demeanor completely changed to a business-like efficiency. Her eyes darkened, and he felt the air change around him, smelling of flowers and friction. She blinked slowly, and curtly said, "Embrace eternity."

His senses went into overdrive, and for a moment his head felt enveloped in darkness, drowned in an icy pitch that threatened to overwhelm his very being. He felt nothing, he _was_ nothing, and melding only served to remind him of that. He sensed a dim tug at his core, and instinct urged him to resist, to fight against the obtrusive alien feeling. Udina tucked that feeling away, buried it in lieu of letting her in, letting her have her way. He _needed_ this, needed the release and needed her to know it.

Unbidden thoughts rushed through his mind, and played out like blurred snapshots of his life. And he felt her heat through his clothes, suddenly there and present and all around him. He was dimly aware of his body responding to her, of his hands as he undid her dress fastenings, and of the heady aroma of her intermingled with the lingering numbness on his tongue.

He dove deeper in, and for a brief instant he stopped being Donnel Udina. It stopped mattering, the years of diplomacy stopped mattering, the Council and Anderson stopped mattering, the rejection and fear just stopped. He simply _was_.

As abruptly as it started, the release ended and he was back on the couch, half-naked and member hard, with Zafeira on top of him radiating heat. And again he found himself amused that as advanced as asari were, they would never be rid of hookers.

"So," she said, voice husky, but still mockingly casual. "Should I call you Councilor?"

"No," he replied with a sneer as he thrusted into her. "Call me King."


End file.
